


Collateral Damage

by Karalora



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Arguing, Blood and Injury, Eye Trauma (but not as bad as it sounds), Gen, Hospital/Clinic, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Plant monster, Poison, Whump, villain!remus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karalora/pseuds/Karalora
Summary: Roman gets into trouble while questing in the Imagination. Rescue arrives, but will the rescuer be all right?
Relationships: LAMP/CALM (platonic)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83





	1. Wandering Monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GraeWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraeWrites/gifts).



Roman often said the Imagination was dangerous. The vast majority of the time, this was flagrant exaggeration. The truth was that the Creative Side had an excellent handle on his realm and had learned to build in all kinds of fail-safes, in case a quest or other adventure started to turn sour in an unplanned way. One of his favorites was a staple of the “game” he called Wandering Monsters, wherein he would hat up, venture into the wilderness of the kingdom, guided by his intuition, and face whatever it threw at him. He kept the far reaches of his realm stocked with not just all manner of fantastic creatures, but conceptual fragments of them—traits that could combine unpredictably to generate  _ new _ monsters, so that he never knew just what to expect.

Once he had battled a fire-breathing winged toad that exploded into thousands of regular toads upon its defeat. That had been rather disgustingly memorable. Then there had been the lamia-sphinx, who forced Roman to solve the riddle of her beauty or be devoured. On yet another occasion, instead of generating a monster, the landscape itself became more hazardous as he traveled, producing sinkholes and avalanches. It was always fresh, always exciting...and always escapable if Roman found himself in over his head, thanks to the fail-safe.

For this particular episode of Wandering Monsters, he found himself descending into a fetid marsh. (That should have been his first clue that something was amiss.) He kept to higher ground as much as possible, avoiding the standing water, but every footstep squelched in slimy mud and he was constantly harassed by clouds of gnats. He was weighing the merits of just calling off the adventure altogether when a patch of scummy water several paces ahead of him erupted in khaki spray and the monster appeared.

It was...a blob. Well, a wad—a shapeless mass of tangled plant matter about the size of an elephant, with no discernible aesthetic or grace. “I ruined my boots for  _ this _ ?” Roman complained aloud. “I have half a mind to just—aah!”

He trailed off in a startled scream as two vines lanced out of the mass toward him. He brought his shield up in time, but the impact still tipped him over, and he slid headfirst down a muddy embankment and into the water. For a panicked moment, Roman was trapped that way, head submerged, lacking the leverage to right himself, until he got the presence of mind to jam his sword into the mud and use it as a handhold to haul himself up. He sputtered, spitting out foul water—

—and suddenly found himself swinging wildly in the air, upside-down. The monster had extended another vine and hoisted him into the air by one ankle. Roman slashed at the ropy tendril only to realize that he didn't have his sword because, duh, it was still stuck in the bank and he had lost his grip on it when the creature yanked him away. But his shield was still there, strapped to his arm, and it was good steel, and a dull edge was still an edge.

The monster thrashed back and forth, making Roman helicopter in the air and robbing him of any chance to bring his shield within reach of the vine that held him, as well as making him faintly motion-sick. It let go on an upswing, sending him tumbling upward, and then snatched him with more vines, these lined with thorns that dug through his clothing and pricked his flesh. Roman gasped with the sudden shock of pain, only to find his breathing constricted as the vines coiled thickly around his torso, squeezing the air from his lungs.

Enough was enough: time for the fail-safe! Roman banged his feet together three times and wheezed “There's no place like home!” (because he respected the classics). The scene sloshed around him, there was a rushing sensation, and he landed on his butt on smooth tile. His sword clattered beside him.

It had worked. He was back in the hall of his castle, safe and able to assess the damage at his leisure while he waited for Phase Two of the fail-safe to kick in. The thorn-wounds stung and itched, but they didn't seem too deep; Roman figured—

The sense of something shifting behind him dragged the prince out of his train of thought. Roman whirled around to see something that  _ should _ have been impossible—the marsh monster was there, in the hall with him! It had  _ followed _ him, through the retrieval spell, and that could mean only one thing.

He should have realized.

“Oh, Rooooomaaaaaannnnnnn!” squealed the voice he detested. “What's wrong, brother dear? Don't you _like_ your new friend? I made him just for you! Say hello and PLAY NICE!” Remus's voice dropped to a growl on the last two words, and the plant creature extended a heavy vine and slapped Roman, sending him tumbling over the marble and adding a multitude of bruises to the pinprick cuts he had already sustained. His whole body twinged in protest.

Roman staggered to his feet. He hadn't managed to grab his sword, and could only watch as the monster  _ galumphed _ toward him, vines lashing. It moved something like a gigantic amoeba—bulging irregularly toward the front and then flowing into the bulge, its movements erratic but averaging out to forward motion. Remus was perched atop it, sitting cross-legged, his morningstar laid across his knees, grinning like he always did when serious violence was in the offing. Roman juked to the side just as they arrived, so that the mass of stinking plant matter shambled past him. It was leaving a disgusting trail of mud and scum all over his floor, and that made him angrier than the injuries. How  _ dare _ —

“Whoopsie-daisy!” Remus screeched, realizing that Roman had evaded him. “None of that, now!” He swiveled atop the monster and it reversed course without even turning, shooting its vines out what had been the back and was now, apparently, the new front. If such terms even meant anything in relation to such a shapeless thing.

“Remus, go _home_!” Roman snarled. “You're not welcome here!”

“Oh, so _you_ can invade _my_ side of the Imagination, but not vice-versa? That's hardly fair!”

“I didn't invade—look, I don't have to justify myself to _you_!” The scratches were really starting to sting, as if the monster were made of nettles. Roman could barely manage to dodge the new strikes—he needed his sword! He turned and darted back the way he had come, and promptly slipped on the sludge left by the creature's passage. Roman's chin met the marble hard enough to fill his vision with black sparks, and he tasted blood.

“Ooh, Roman, I like the way you think!” Remus said, and before Roman could wonder what the hell he was talking about, the plant-monster had him by the ankle again—both ankles this time. Roman's stomach roiled, made more sensitive by his near-concussion, but before he got a chance to see whether he was actually going to be sick, the creature whipped him across the room.

In the next instant, he slammed into a pillar, the impact sending savage pain exploding all up and down his body. In the instant after that, the pain came  _ again _ as he dropped to the floor. He could scarcely breathe, it was so excruciating, and he definitely couldn't move, even to desperately crawl away when Remus and his “pet” approached again.

“Poor little Princey,” Remus said, sing-song. “He's all black and blue! Not a very balanced color scheme—too cool, too somber. I know! We'll brighten it up with some RED!” On the last word, a thorny vine raked at Roman's back, tearing right through his sash and jacket and leaving burning scratches in his flesh. The assault continued, Remus cackling as his minion tore Roman's clothes to shreds and his skin to something not much better. _Where the HELL is Phase Two?_ the prince wondered frantically.

“ _Enough!_ ” he gasped out, prompting a pause in the torture. “P-please! What do you _want_ , Remus?”

Remus rolled his eyes so hard that they literally popped out of his head and bounced on the floor, adding revulsion to Roman's catalog of horrible sensations. “What, you never heard of family bonding time?” he said, ichor dripping from his empty sockets.

Roman closed his eyes against the hideous sight and began to hum softly, trying to dull the pain to something manageable. He didn't get very far before Remus's voice cut in, rasping like sandpaper against his battered awareness.

“Hey! Don't ignore me when I'm talking to you! Where are your manners?”

_ Back in the swamp _ , Roman thought sourly, but he didn't bother responding out loud.

“I _asked_ you a _question_!” Remus roared. Then, suddenly as mild as if they'd been discussing recent movies, he said: “You know...there's something I've always wondered. Why does the prince always get to be so handsome?”

Roman's eyes snapped open with alarm. Remus, in possession of his own eyes once again, had shifted position atop the monster, lying on his stomach, head propped up on one hand while the other twirled the morningstar almost negligently. “And whatever would he  _ do _ ,” the Intrusive Side continued, “if that were taken away from him?”

He made a sharp gesture, and several vines zipped out and coiled around Roman's sprawled limbs, pinning him in place. Remus twiddled his fingers in the air, and another vine, this one dotted with  _ barbed _ thorns, emerged and hovered, poised over Roman's face, quivering with what seemed like monstrous anticipation.

Just as the vine struck, there was a soft explosion of ultraviolet and a smell of ozone, and someone was there, intervening. Roman's vision was becoming hopelessly blurred; all he could make out was a mass of black and purple.  _ Virgil...? _

Virgil had blocked the vine with his forearm, his baggy hoodie sleeve bunching up and cushioning him from the damage as its momentum whipped it around his wrist. “ **GET OUT!** ” he bellowed, his voice reverberating with the Tempest Tongue. The force of his shout struck Remus like a physical blow, sending him tumbling backward along the top of the marsh monster. “ _ **OUT!!** _ ” Virgil repeated, wrenching at the vine wrapped around his arm. 

The stress of the situation lent him power, and the monster...unraveled, like a ball of yarn. Remus made an extremely undignified noise as he fell amid the collapsing vines, and in a puff of acrid smoke, he was gone. The remains of the plant creature...remained, strung out in slimy, noisome piles in what was supposed to be a luxurious and fashionable palace hall.

Near-silence fell over the space, punctuated only by Virgil's panting breaths as he came down from the peak of his fight-or-flight state, and by Roman's own ragged breaths. His wounds throbbed hotly, seeming to expand, and he realized why, just as the room started to spin away into blackness...


	2. Patching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the attack...

“... **ncey!** _**Roman!** _”

Roman came to with a start. Virgil was bent over him, close to panic.

“Oh...there you are, Phase Two,” Roman mumbled with as much pep as he could muster, which was next to none.

“ **Phase...what are you talking about? Are you delirious?** ”

The ache of his wounds came back in a rush, and Roman winced. “Not yet.” He tried to push himself up into a sitting position, failed, and weighed the pros and cons of just passing out again.

“ **No! Stay awake, Roman! You need help and I don't know how to get you back by myself!** ”

“Right,” Roman said with a little more force. He focused through the pain and summoned a small glass bottle. “Here, give this to Logan when we get back.”

“ **Didn't you hear m** e?” Virgil said, coming down off his fright enough that his voice stopped resonating. “I don't know _how_ to get back, Prince Pain-in-the-Butt! I only got here in the first place by following your beacon! _Which_ , by the way,” he added, poking Roman's nose (which was one of the few parts of him not pulsing with pain), “don't set up little magic whatevers that are going to involve the rest of us without telling us first. It's just rude, okay? Come on—can you stand?”

“I guess I'm about to find out,” said Roman.

It took a long time for them to get him upright, and at every step there was more pain and a brief spell of lightheadedness. Roman was sure his ribs were at least bruised, if not cracked, and his thorn-inflicted wounds felt like fire.

“You look like crap,” said Virgil. “Seriously, you're pouring sweat. What did he do to you?”

“I'll be fine as long as you give Logan the bottle,” Roman said.

“So we're going with cryptic? I hope this means you're saving your detailed explanations for _how to get back to the mindscape from here_.”

“Oh. Right,” said Roman. “That's easy—it's through the red door.”

“Okay, and where is the red door?”

“Wherever you need it to be.”

“R **o** m **a** n!”

“Find a corridor and explore until you see it. It shouldn't take more than a minute or two.”

“O...kay... Come on, then. We're walking now.”

Roman, leaning hard on Virgil for support and now also direction, concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and let himself drift...

* * *

Virgil was worried. First of all because that was his job, and second of all because anyone would be worried in these circumstances. Roman had gone unsettlingly quiet. He was still walking, more or less—his legs were moving and his feet were hitting the floor at approximately the right angle—but his lack of response suggested that either he wasn't properly conscious and was moving on autopilot, or had withdrawn into himself to _prevent_ losing consciousness altogether.

It was probably for the best. Roman had obviously been in a lot of pain while they were talking, which meant he was probably hurt pretty badly, and Virgil didn't think he could pick the prince up and carry him without aggravating his injuries. He wasn't bleeding too badly, but the wounds looked very irritated, the surrounding flesh red and swollen. He was developing a waxy pallor to go with the sweating, and that set off all kinds of alarm bells.

Virgil shifted, shouldering more of Roman's weight, and gently steered him toward the nearest archway leading out of the hall. Sure enough, it was a corridor, and Virgil turned the first corner he came to and there was the red door, at the end of the adjoining hallway. “Small favors,” he muttered, all but dragging Roman toward it in his haste to get him to safety and help.

As soon as they were through, in Roman's room proper, Virgil began calling to his fellow Sides, using the Tempest Tongue deliberately, this time, to instill the necessary dismay. “ **Logan! Patton! We have an emergency here!** ” He continued to guide Roman out of the room, and the other two met them in the hallway, converging from wherever in the mindscape they had been.

“Oh no, Roman!” Patton wailed. “What happened to him?”

“The Duke,” Virgil said simply. “I didn't see everything, but it took a lot just to get him standing, and...” He dropped his voice for no reason that he could identify. “...I think he's been poisoned.”

Patton made a horrified gasp.

“Roman?” Logan said firmly. “Respond if you can hear me, please.”

“Mmnn,” went Roman. “M'here. Ow.”

“What do we do?” Patton squeaked.

“Firstly, we remain calm,” said Logan. “Secondly, we should move Roman to a location where we can more readily evaluate and treat his injuries.”

“Where's that?” said Virgil. “I don't think we should try carrying him downstairs. It's been worrying enough getting him this far in the shape he's in.”

“Hmmm...” Logan mused. “I know just the place.” He made a sweeping gesture, and the hallway swiveled around them, blurring...and reformed as no less than a medical examination room. Logan's black shirt collar and striped tie peeked out from between the lapels of a white lab coat, and there was a stethoscope slung around his shoulders. Patton and Virgil found themselves dressed in clinical scrubs—Patton's were light blue with a pattern of cartoon dogs dressed as healthcare personnel, and Virgil's were lavender with black bats and spiders.

“Oh,” Virgil said in a small voice. “The Mind Palace clinic.”

Roman lay on the examination table, having settled back into a fitful unconsciousness. Patton immediately went to the cupboards lining one wall of the room and began stacking a tray with rolls of gauze and antiseptic pads sealed in their packaging. Logan manifested a clipboard and began looking over the ailing prince and making notes.

“His temperature is up,” he observed. “I believe you are correct, Virgil. His symptoms are consistent with the presence of a toxin in his bloodstream, and the inflammation of these wounds suggests the vector. Well done.”

Virgil suddenly remembered the bottle Roman had given him and fumbled with his outfit until he found it in a pocket. “I think he knew. He said to give you this.” He set it on Patton's tray as the Moral Side carried it over to the table, getting a good look at himself in the process. It was small enough to fit comfortably in the hand and contained about an ounce and a half of what looked like soda water mixed with a few pinches of gold and silver glitter. It was stopped with a cork, and there was a piece of card attached to it via a slender red ribbon looped around the neck.

Logan picked it up and peered at the card. “Antidote #2,” he read. “Unfortunately, there seems to be no information regarding dosage or even method of administration.”

“I'm no expert or anything,” said Patton, “but if the poison is in his blood, shouldn't we give the antidote to him the same way? Like a shot?”

“It isn't quite that simple, Patton, to say nothing of the concerns regarding timing and—”

“Guys,” Virgil cut in. “You're missing the obvious. This is one of Princey's magic potions. It's not gonna take rocket surgery to figure out.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “Rockets are manufactured objects, not living creatures. The practice of surgery does not apply to them.”

“I _mean_ this is simpler than you're making it out to be. It's a potion in a pretty bottle. Get him to drink it.”

Now the Logical Side frowned. “Under the circumstances, that would be...extremely reckless.”

On the table, Roman whimpered in his swoon.

“Okay, you two, enough. Let's not forget what we're actually doing here,” said Patton. He briskly stripped the wrapper off an antiseptic pad and went to work cleaning Roman's scratches. Roman flinched at the touch of the stinging medicine, and Patton leaned down to him. “Roman? Kiddo, can you wake up for us for just a minute? We need to ask you something.”

After a bit more coaxing, Roman opened his eyes a crack. “That's it, just like that,” Patton said in a voice brimming with warmth. “I'll make this quick for you, Roman...we have your antidote but we don't know how we should give it to you. Can you please tell us? Are you able to do that?”

Roman blinked a few times, as if processing Patton's words. Grimacing heavily, he propped himself up on one elbow into a half-sitting position and reached the other hand out half-blindly. “Bottle,” he croaked. Logan quickly handed it to him, and the prince flicked the cork out with his thumb, downed the contents in only a few seconds, and let both the bottle and himself fall—it smashed on the floor, while he flopped back onto the table.

“Told you,” Virgil said quietly.

Shaking his head in a way that was impossible to interpret, Logan joined Patton in resuming treatment of Roman's injuries. Virgil found himself at loose ends—there wasn't really room for a third clinician at the examination table, and without a physical activity to perform, he had no way to distract himself from the unnerving atmosphere of the setting. He found himself backing against the counter where the scrub sink was and drumming his fingers against the hard surface. The hollow-backed stainless steel rang like a cymbal.

“Virge?” said Patton without taking his eyes off his task. “Are you okay over there?”

“Yeah...it's just...I don't have anything to do, and I'm...not digging the whole _hospital_ thing.”

“You are not obligated to stay,” said Logan. “We have this well in hand.”

“I just don't feel right, leaving while Roman still needs help.”

Now they did look up. “You did help him,” said Patton. “You pulled him out of danger and brought him to us, so _we_ can help. Go ahead and get some rest; you're looking pretty worn out.”

Apparently it had taken the observation by another Side for Virgil to notice his own exhaustion, but he suddenly felt his energy take a nosedive. “Yeah,” he agreed, rubbing his face with the heels of his hands. “The rescue took something out of me.” He threw a two-fingered salute and sank out.

He arrived in his room, back in his usual casual attire and bone-weary. He didn't bother to shuck off his hoodie or even kick off his shoes before flopping face-down onto his bed.

After a moment, he rolled over onto his back, wiped sweat from his brow, and dropped off asleep.


	3. Collateral Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roman gets better, but someone else gets worse...

Logan taped down the last bandage and stood back, admiring their handiwork. “There. I think we can put him to bed now.”

“He looks better already,” said Patton. “A little like a mummy, but I think he'd be okay with that. Remember that one Halloween?”

“Patton, that was Christmas Eve.”

“Oh. Right.”

Roman had begun visibly improving shortly after drinking his antidote, which made sense. His scratches remained a bit swollen, but the other two Sides had disinfected them, daubed them with ointment and patched them with gauze, and the prince was now resting peacefully and well on the road to recovery. Logan estimated thirty-six hours before his rapid recuperative powers (something they all enjoyed, as non-physical beings) brought him back to full health.

He waved the examination room away, transforming it into a small but pleasantly appointed hotel room, with Roman tucked into a full bed and a smaller cot alongside. Putting the Creative Side back in his own room would have been ideal, but they couldn't enter it from the common space without him being conscious to allow it.

“One of us should stay with him until he awakens naturally,” Logan said, “and I volunteer.”

“All right,” said Patton. “I'll look in on Virge after he's had a chance to rest up. And I'll keep an ear out for Thomas and let him know what's up if he tries to call on us.”

“Excellent plan,” said Logan, changing from his medical garb into a simple combo of tee-shirt and sweatpants. He maneuvered onto the cot as Patton sank out and was soon dozing.

* * *

_Fire. Fire and hot darkness and and_ _**pain**_ _, a dull yet insistent pain that was everywhere with no way to locate its source. And the fire was_ _**black** _ _fire, doing nothing to light up the oppressive, suffocating darkness. And the darkness was made of voices, too whispery quiet to be heard clearly yet at the same time so loud that they were like physical blows to his ears, inflicting more pain and more_ _**fire**_ _._

 _He couldn't move and he could barely breathe (the fire was somehow also water) and everything was wrong and everything_ _**hurt** _ _and he didn't understand_ _**why**_ _. There was no such thing as time—no past to remember in order to understand, no future to anticipate so he could plan—there was only an eternal present of pain and darkness. And_ _**fire**_ _._

* * *

Roman woke slowly, feeling unusually refreshed for a mere nap. It took him a moment to realize that no, it _hadn't_ been a mere nap. His back was dreadfully sore at first, but the pain receded into the background as his awareness brightened, and he remembered.

He opened his eyes and glanced around as much as he could without moving just yet. A modest bedroom, furnished in subdued colors. Morning sunlight filtering in through medium-weight drapes over either a large double window or a sliding glass door. A framed piece of art on the wall, its image invisible behind the reflection of light on the glass cover. A bureau and a small television. So, a hotel room—not luxurious, but far from the worst place to be. He tried to sit up a little to take in more, but found himself hissing in pain as something twinged in the small of his back.

Suddenly Logan was there, standing up from wherever he had been and fumbling for his glasses on the bureau. “Roman? Are you awake? Is it morning?” He paused to yawn and change back into his daywear. “Don't try to get up too quickly or you'll pull on your sutures.”

“Sutures...” Roman repeated, easing himself up more carefully and reaching around his own back to feel the knobbly knots under the bandage. “Was it that bad?”

“Just in one spot. I put in two sutures to close up a laceration. I doubt you'll need them long.” He paused again, and cleared his throat. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough,” said Roman, just before his stomach rumbled. “Strike that—I'm _starving_. I don't suppose...I might get breakfast in bed?”

“Not from me, you won't. It should be safe for you to get up and walk as long as you're careful. Come on—Patton and Virgil will be very pleased to see you on the mend.”

“I owe Virgil, for sure,” Roman said. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and gingerly got to his feet. “These are nice pajamas; did you put me in these? I just need to make one little addition for the occasion.” He reached into the hem of his sleeve, like a magician doing a scarf trick, and drew out a swatch of gold-tinted chiffon which whipped around the shoulder opposite and knotted itself, creating an impromptu arm sling.

“Roman, that is entirely unnecessary. Your arm suffered only superficial damage.”

“It's for the 'recuperating hero' aesthetic. Let's go eat!”

* * *

Patton dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into his peppermint tea...yeah, it was that kind of morning. He was trying not to be morose, but it was tough going when the last he'd seen of his fellow Sides was Roman unconscious and Logan settling in for a bedside vigil. He wondered whether it was worth making breakfast, and for how many.

There came a soft sound from the stairwell, and then Logan's unmistakable imperious tones. “Descend _slowly_. Don't disturb your dressings.”

“I know how to walk down stairs, Logan.”

And just like that, Patton's morning was 100% better.

“KIDDO!” he bubbled, his sock-clad feet slipping on the kitchen linoleum as he hastened to meet Roman. “Look at you, almost all better! Wait, what happened to your arm? I thought...”

“Aesthetics,” Logan said flatly.

“So it's safe to hug him?” Patton said, not even waiting before sweeping Roman into a joyful embrace. “Anyway, we should have a special breakfast to celebrate your recovery! We can make it together! You two do me a favor and get out the stuff, and I'll go wake Virgil!” He all but leapt up the stairs, buoyed by relief and delight.

Patton and Virgil had an understanding. Patton was allowed to enter Virgil's room without specific permission under the following circumstances: 1) He was reasonably certain that Virgil was in there, 2) He was entering for the purpose of either _gently_ waking him up or rescuing him from a presumed panic spiral, 3) He knocked first anyway and announced his intention to enter, giving Virgil a chance to deny him if it was a bad time.

Patton knocked on Virgil's door. “Virge? Kiddo? Roman's up and he's doing great! We're gonna make breakfast together.”

There was no response, so he rapped again, said “I'm coming in,” and did so.

And just like that, Patton's morning was 100% worse.

“Logan!” he blurted before he had even processed the entirety of the scene. “ _LOGAN!_ ”

There was a crash of dropped dishes from the kitchen, followed by the rapid rhythm of someone charging up the stairs. Logan appeared in the doorway, his jaw dropping.

Virgil sprawled fully clothed on his bed—pale, trembling, panting, _whimpering_. His eyes, open a crack, were rolled back until only the bloodshot sclera were visible. The sheets around him were damp with perspiration. Patton repeatedly reached a shaking hand toward his face to offer comfort, but pulled back every time, unsure whether he should make contact. “What do we do?” he pleaded. “What's wrong with him?”

“I can't say without more information,” Logan confessed. “But it looks like—”

“It's the poison,” Roman said, having just arrived. “That's what it does without the antidote. It's one of my brother's favorite dirty tricks, so I know all about it. But I don't understand; he wasn't wounded! Unless...”

He shrugged out of his bogus sling and gently lifted Virgil's left hand, undid the zipper on the sleeve cuff, and turned down the fabric. Two punctures, one larger and deeper than the other, were revealed in the soft, pale skin on the underside of the Anxious Side's wrist. The flesh around them was horribly swollen and red, with inflamed blood vessels visible through the skin, radiating out from the wounds.

“The thorns penetrated after all,” Roman said. “It must have been so slight that he didn't notice at the time. The poison takes time to fully kick in.”

“Oh, _Virgil_ ,” said Patton, finally overcoming his hesitancy and ruffling Virgil's sweat-drenched hair. Virgil flinched away from the touch, his head thrashing back and forth until he finally flopped over entirely, facing away from them, and curled up into the fetal position. “He's burning up,” Patton said, following Virgil to the other side of the bed. “Roman, do you have any more of that antidote? Please say yes.”

Roman rubbed a hand over his face. “It's too late for that. There's about a two-hour window. After that, the only thing to do is ride it out. It's not going to be a good time for any of us, Virgil least of all...but he will make a full recovery. Remus doesn't go in for lethal stuff, on the grounds that dead people can't pay him attention.”

“He's not wrong in that. Roman, you have suffered the full effects of the poison before?” said Logan.

Roman nodded.

“Please tell me whatever you can about it. It may help advise a course of action for treating Virgil's symptoms until his system purges the toxin.”

“Nightmares,” Roman said softly. “He'll be knocked out for a couple days, and the fever will give him fever-dreams...bad enough, right? Now try to picture fever-dreams designed by _my brother_. Better yet, don't.”

Logan adjusted his glasses. “Would reducing the fever alleviate the visions?”

Roman shrugged. “Maybe? It can't hurt.”

“I'll set up some cold compresses,” said Patton, rising from his kneeling position. “And we should move him. This is no place for a sickbed. You two are already showing some under-eye smudge.”

“I do find myself becoming increasingly unsettled,” said Logan. “Thank you for spotting that, Patton.”

“I volunteer my room,” said Roman. “The atmosphere of pleasant fantasies should help to combat the nightmares.”

“You two work on that, then,” said Logan. “I will inform Thomas so that it doesn't catch him off guard if Virgil's suffering spills over onto him. In fact, he may be able to counter it from his end.”

The three of them nodded to each other, and they got to it.

* * *

It was a day and a half before Virgil woke up.

Roman had been watching him, as usual—it was his room, after all, and by concentrating he could modulate the atmosphere to produce only the sweetest and most beautiful of ideas, though he could only hope they were filtering through to Virgil's lowered awareness. He was changing the cold compress, which was a bit trickier than just removing one wet washcloth and replacing it with another, cooler one, because the delirium had Virgil recoiling almost violently when anything touched his head or face. The way to calm him, they (actually Patton) had discovered by accident, was to pick up his hand and gently massage the pad of his thumb.

Roman was in the midst of this process when Virgil's hand abruptly tightened on his, and then the Anxious Side's eyes flew open and he let out a brief, barking yell.

“It's all right!” Roman said on reflex. “It's just me, Virgil, I'm right here and you're safe. You're safe. You're _safe_ , Emo the Frownfish.”

“P-Princey...?” Virgil said, his voice barely a squeak.

“Yeah,” said Roman. “We're taking care of you. You'll be okay.”

“D...d...don...”

“Don't what?”

“Leave. Don't leave. _Please._ ”

Roman had been planning to go inform the other two that Virgil was awake, but after a plea like that, it was completely off the table. They would find out sooner or later. “I won't,” he said softly, squeezing the hand he was still holding.

There was a long pause while Virgil sank back into the pillow, whimpering.

“I know,” Roman said. “It hurts. It'll stop hurting pretty soon now that you're awake.”

Another pause, and then Virgil said, “Have you really been here this whole time?”

“We took turns, actually. But I'm glad I'm here now, so I can thank you properly for rescuing me the other day. You were my hero, Virgil. The least I can do is be yours for a little while.”

“Sap,” Virgil muttered, proving that he was going to be all right.


End file.
